Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  Ten minutes later, at the very top of the building, Vince sat at a card table in the private room reserved for the big games involving the high rollers. Murray the Head was seated opposite him. He was immaculate in an electric-blue, double-breasted suit, creases pressed razor sharp, an inch of perfectly folded white silk handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket, which matched his shirt; and a blue silk tie with hand-painted red dice detail. Always with the good-quality schmutter. Vince would lay odds that everything was monogrammed, too, from his socks to his handkerchief.

  The Head lit a Pall Mall cigarette with a fluted gold Ronson lighter, then started the conversation. ‘Any friend of Long George, whilst not automatically a friend of mine, I certainly consider worth some of my time.’

  His voice was a product of careful adaptation: he was able to shift it around depending on the company he was keeping, between the penthouse and the pavement, and all of the social and class levels in between. Murray the Head swam with the tide of money and usually washed up in Bond Street auction houses, Belgravia town houses and Mayfair jewellers. The voice was as necessary a tool of his trade as a plunger was to a plumber. He used it to blend in with his environment, case it, then plunder it. He was as adroit at the sleight-of-hand and swift-of-tongue con as he was at scaling the rooftops and cracking safes.

  Vince eyed the bald head, tanned and glimmering, then said, ‘I was hoping you could do me a favour.’

  Murray, matter-of-factly: ‘What is it?’

  The room was warm; the radiators must have been turned right up, because Vince was sweating. He felt it beading on his top lip. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he said, ‘It’s a job.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘It’s a painting.’

  ‘Does it belong to you?’

  ‘If it did, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.’

  The Head cogitated for the fat end of thirty seconds. He was never one to lead a conversation, especially an incriminating one, especially with a copper. He pulled back his chair and instructed Vince to stand up.

  Vince did as he was told, whereupon the Head bent down on one knee and his well-manicured hands frisked him from sock to collar. It was a professional job.

  ‘Now empty your pockets.’

  Vince emptied his pocket paraphernalia on to the card table: wallet, cash, separate wallet for the police badge and car keys. The Head inspected the contents.

  Vince, with his arms outspread, couldn’t help but smile at the novel reversal of roles. ‘Shouldn’t I be doing this to you?’

  ‘Carry on asking people to take property that doesn’t belong to you, and you might have to get used to it, Detective.’

  ‘What are you looking for, a tape?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. These are dangerous times. They just popped a US President on his home turf. Then you got your H-bombs, Fidel Castro, cold wars … and some very good friends of mine have just been sent down for thirty years apiece. So excuse me if I seem a little paranoid when talking to a policeman about performing a robbery.’

  Vince knew the friends he was referring to were the train robbers, but he didn’t want to start getting into names.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was approached by a Russian fellow in the Pillars of Hercules public house, and he asked me to obtain some very sensitive information on national security?’

  It wasn’t a question because they both knew the answer, and besides they’d never met each other before. But Vince played along in the spirit of cordiality, since he’d never met a seasoned villain who didn’t have a good yarn to tell. ‘No, Murray, you never did.’

  ‘A certain Tory politician got caught with his trousers down in the company of some brass. Nothing unusual there, but what was unusual is that he’d filmed it. For posterity, I can only imagine. But the brass was also having it off with this Russian fellow, a diplomat who was sidelining for the KGB. He knew about the film and wanted it. And he was prepared to pay top rouble for it. The Russki taped our whole conversation with a device secreted in a Swan Vesta matchbox. Unbelievable what they can get up to these days. Whatever next, you have to ask yourself.’

  Vince knew he was talking about the Profumo case, but again didn’t want to start getting into names.

  Satisfied Vince wasn’t a cut-price James Bond, the Head sat down again as if nothing had happened. He then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the white silk handkerchief with a flourish. ‘You’re schvitzing like a kipper,’ he said, offering it to Vince.

  Vince eyed the handkerchief as though it was too good to mop sweat with. The Head gave him a slight smile, and nod of encouragement. Vince took it and did the necessary. ‘It’s certainly warm in here.’

  ‘I like the heat.’

  ‘I imagined it would be monogrammed,’ said Vince, inspecting the silk handkerchief before handing it back to the Head.

  ‘Why would I want to put my name over everything?’ he said, putting it back in his breast pocket. ‘Like I said, any friend of Long George’s. So tell me about it.’

  Vince then laid out the caper. He described the painting and where he thought it was stashed. But he left out certain specifics like names, and why a policeman would be stealing a painting, and what he was going to do with it. And, to the Head’s professional credit, he never asked. The Head just listened, weighing up the proposition.

  ‘Mmm. It doesn’t seem like that tough a job. Lock might pose a problem, but nothing you yourself couldn’t handle. Why don’t you do it yourself?’

  Vince, appealing to his professional vanity, replied, ‘I’m not a pro and I don’t want to take any chances. If the painting’s in the room, I want it here in my hand. And I know you’re the best person to put it there.’

  ‘That’s about as true as a true thing gets,’ said the Head, with a solid smile on his face. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. The security, the locks, a piece of cake. And I’m already well acquainted with the layout of penthouse suites at the Grand.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  The Head placed one tanned hand on the green-baize card table. He inspected his nails, obviously admiring them. They looked as if they meant more to him than the two rocks he was wearing, one on each pinkie finger, and they gleamed almost as much.

  ‘So, my young detective friend, I know what I’m gonna steal. I know how I’m gonna steal it. All I gotta know now is why I’m gonna steal it.’

  ‘I need the painting because—’

  ‘Dat dat dat.’ The Head held up a halting palm. ‘Why you need the painting is none of my concern. My concern is, why should I get it for you of all people?’

  Vince nodded in appreciation of the thief’s concerns. ‘Zsa Zsa Gabor ring any bells?’

  ‘She’s an actress – and not a very good one, at that. But nice to look at, all the same.’

  ‘Yeah, and now she’s light of a suite of diamonds, lifted from a hotel on the Riviera. Nice tan you’ve got there, Murray.’

  The Head smiled, cat and mouse. ‘Maybe some diamonds did come my way when I was on the Riviera, I really couldn’t say. And, more importantly, neither can you.’

  ‘I have a pal works for Interpol, name’s Dryden. Ray Dryden. I can remove your name from the Zsa Zsa Gabor caper.’

  ‘My name’s not on the Zsa Zsa Gabor caper.’

  Vince smiled, didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. They both knew the Head’s name was only a phone call away. ‘But it’s not all bad news, Murray. If your name comes up again, I’ll make sure, as long as no one gets hurt and it’s all covered by the insurance, you’ll get another pass. And, furthermore, any money from the painting, you can have.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘The man who wants to buy it is ready to go all the way. You negotiate it.’

  The Head weighed this up. ‘So, essentially you’re giving me a tip about a painting that I can keep after you’ve done what you need to do with it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And you d
on’t want it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Or any of the profit I make from it?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And, more importantly, I’ll have a man in Interpol watching my back should such an occasion arise?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So, should such an occasion arise and I was to get pinched over a piece of work, hypothetically, of course, because we both know that such an occasion would not arise, I’d get a pass?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Mmm, money in the bank,’ he crooned contentedly. He then narrowed his eyes and refocused on Vince. ‘What exactly do you get out of it?’

  Vince’s mouth slipped into a knowing smile. ‘I’ve got a hunch that if the shoe was on the other foot, you wouldn’t tell me, would you, Murray?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Vince and Murray the Head were sitting in Vince’s car outside the Grand. Eddie Tobin had booked into the hotel twenty minutes ago. Vince had already concluded that they needed a decoy. The Head concurred and provided one, the statuesque redhead Vince had seen at his side at the races: Valerie the Volcano. Her reputation and the gags were plentiful and obvious: when she blew, you knew about it. Not far off six foot in her stockinged feet, with flame-red hair, she was stunning in a sexually unmanageable way. No one could handle Valerie, simply too hot. Of Scottish extraction and male distraction, born and bred under the sound of Bow bells and wolf whistles. Fiery, feisty, full-lipped, long-lashed with cheekbones that just didn’t give up. Broad of shoulder and beam, providing an hour-glass figure you’d happily spend your finest sixty minutes watching, and fortified with biblical bosoms that heaved and hoed with every breathless coo and sigh, the Volcano oozed sex and heat. But she was the Vesuvius you could not mount – because she was the property of Murray the Head.

  The Head had tamed her, taught her and cultivated her with diamonds, furs and the good life. She was his muse, his benchmark for taste. He wouldn’t steal anything unless the Volcano could carry it off. And carry it off she did, with stolen jewels stashed away in her backcombed beehive, her heaving cleavage, or places too sweet and sweaty to mention, as she sashayed her way through various airports, customs stops and Checkpoint Charlies.

  Ten minutes after Eddie Tobin had checked into the hotel, she stepped out of the car and into her position at the hotel bar. The way the Head and Vince figured it, Tobin, who liked a drink and was probably having his whole stay here paid for, would mosey on down to the bar before dinner. There the Volcano, the Venus flytrap, would be waiting to snag him up in conversation and promises, and keep him enthralled for as long as it took to let the Head get into his room, search the place and procure the painting. Back in the bar, Tobin, thinking he was on for a night of rapture and eruption with the Volcano, would then receive a slap across the chops and hear, ‘What kind of girl do you take me for?’ ringing in his ears with indignant rage as he watched her shimmy out of the bar and straight into the arms of the Head, exiting the hotel with the painting concealed about his person.

  The Head checked his platinum Cartier Tank watch. ‘Meet me at midnight in the Brunswick,’ he said, eyes still on his watch.

  Vince checked his own watch, neither platinum nor Cartier, and not stolen. It was only 8.30 p.m. ‘Will it take that long?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Either way, midnight’s got a nice ring to it. Better than quarter past ten.’

  Vince watched the Head saunter over to the Grand Hotel, then rotate out of view through the revolving door.

  Vaughn was happy, or as happy as any man walking in tight shoes could be. His suede, tasselled loafers were on his feet and his wizened flowers were in his hand, and his head and body oozed the comfort and concord that only Chasing the Dragon could provide. He reckoned that he’d missed meeting Wendy at the station, but he still had a few quid in his pocket, so he put it to good use. Instead of walking on his throbbing feet or catching a bus, he got into a cab and headed home to Waterloo Street.

  On the ride home, he thought firstly about his new shoes. He’d stuff the loafers with damp newspaper overnight, which would loosen them up and take away the pain. Then he thought about an excuse to fob his girl off with, as to why he’d missed meeting her train. Easygoing, gullible or trusting as she was, she’d swallow any reason he thought up. So he soon went back to thinking about his shoes.

  As the cab swung into Waterloo Street, he noticed a small crowd gathered near his flat, so he asked the driver to slow down. As the cab eased past the basement flat, he saw two uniformed coppers posted at the entrance to the steps, and a black vehicle parked right outside. He’d seen these before: black and ominous allowing enough room for one fully outstretched passenger in the rear for a ride you didn’t want to take: destination the morgue.

  Vaughn froze in the back seat, as stiff as a corpse himself, as the rigor mortis of a grim realization set in. When the cabbie asked where he wanted dropping off, Vaughn, his mind racing but going nowhere, chose as far away as his remaining funds would take him.

  CHAPTER 21

  A NAKED GIRL AND A GUN

  Vince took out the spare key that Bobbie had given him and twirled it in the lock, but the door was already open. He stepped into the vestibule, checked the newly replaced lock, and saw that it was on the latch. Sensing something was wrong, Vince bolted up the stairs to Bobbie’s apartment. Quietening his breath, he tried the door handle, found it was locked. He therefore unlocked it and stepped cautiously over the threshold. The room was in total darkness, the heavy curtains drawn.

  Vince carefully closed the door behind him, found the light switch beside the door and threw it. He headed through to the living room, then jumped back as his heart jackknifed. Bobbie stood before him with a gun gripped in both hands. She was naked.

  Vince’s first reaction was to put his hands up, as the gun was solidly trained on him. Her legs were slightly apart for better balance, as if she was about to fire off a shot. As guns went it was big, and it looked huge in her delicate hands.

  Voice hushed, he tried, ‘Bobbie …?’

  No reply. She stood transfixed, didn’t move.

  He looked into her eyes: they were wide open, intently focused. He took a half step to the side. They stayed focused, but not on him; instead on the spot he had just vacated. He carried on side-stepping, as silent as a crab on wet sand, until he was now over to the side of her, but about five feet away. Still she didn’t move. Her eyes remained wide, too wide, their natural almond shape disfigured into unblinking saucers. Her body was unflinching, as if caught in a trance, witnessing a ghost in her sights. As Vince edged towards her, he realized she was in the grip of some terrible nightmare.

  His first thought was not to wake her, having heard that you must never wake a sleepwalker, since the shock might kill them. He’d also heard that if you dream about falling from a tall building and you hit the deck, you never wake up. He didn’t believe that; it was just a piece of nocturnal nonsense that some dozy chump had dreamed up – for how could anyone live to tell the tale? All the same, he wasn’t going to take the chance.

  His second thought was to get the gun out of her hand. He’d heard they fired bullets that could kill you – that he knew for a fact! Two more paces and he was by her side. He could feel her breath on his cheek, like short bursts of warm exhaust. He put his arm gently around her waist. She smelled sweet, almost sickly sweet, reminded him of—

  ‘Ahhhh!’ She let out a scream. It was genuinely piercing, because it was only about an inch from his ear. He grabbed both her hands and shook the gun out of them, gathered her up, eyes following where the gun was landing and keeping them out of the way of its muzzle. The gun landed where he wanted it to: on a heavy floor cushion by her side. It did a bounce, a little somersault, then flopped on to the heavy Persian rug. A satisfactorily soft landing, with no sudden jolts and no bullets discharged.

  Vince held Bobbie tightly. Her eyes were now closed, her face scrunched up as if to make sure they stayed that way. There was fi
ght in her body, but Vince wouldn’t allow it freedom to express itself. He held her tight and close, overwhelmed by the desire to protect her. He whispered softly in her ear, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, baby, it’s OK, it’s me, baby, it’s me …’

  He didn’t know if these words would soothe or anger her, considering the way they had left things that same afternoon. He needn’t have worried, though, for she wrapped herself around him so tight that her feet were almost lifted off the floor. He carried her over to the pouting Mae West red-lip sofa. She was entwined around him. She wouldn’t let go. And he didn’t want her to. Her hair was damp, her body glistened with a sheen of sweat; it was as if she had just stepped out of the shower. But her scent wasn’t fresh; it was sweet, ripe, syrupy and sickly all at the same time. That was a smell he knew he would never forget, a smell that would be on constant recall. On her arms and around her body she had elongated red marks like tiger stripes, where she must have tossed and turned as the nightmare twisted and tightened its hold, the silk sheets wrapping around her like ropes, fettering her to the four-poster bed until she finally broke free …

  And then the gun … the gun?

  On the sofa she gripped him tightly, till it felt as though she was welded underneath him. He grabbed her hair, pulled back her head, tugging her face away from his chest, and softly he licked her lips. Eyes still closed, she smiled, yet her mouth looked twisted, deceitful, arrogant. Vince had known this was going to happen from the moment he’d lit her cigarette in the Blue Orchid. As their hands touched, they had flinched, as a charge passed between them, alerting them both to the inevitable. And here they were now, both naked, as she wrapped herself around him.

  His hands gripped her hair. She bit into his lip. He pulled his mouth away from hers so he could study her face as they built up a rhythm. He wanted to look at her. Observe her. Soak up every moment. Have it seared visually in his memory like a painting, and not just the physical sensations coursing through his body: her face, her breasts, her hips, that smooth damp belly, the mound of her vagina pushing into his crotch. The way he held her, dominating her, seemed brutal but she was complicit, eyes still closed, as if asleep, but so wide awake, so very alive. Vince closed his own eyes, put his mouth back to hers, felt the scrape of teeth as they found each other, melded together and came.